


A Break in the Battle

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 07:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: In which Rumplestiltskin rescues Jefferson from Wonderland and reignites his career in acquisitions. Among other things.





	A Break in the Battle

Jefferson looked like a doll-baby, a sweet thing, but he was no novice. He was not so innocent a creature as he looked. He was clever and opportunistic, and had learned these things from a good teacher, though – every so often – he was laid low by a galloping madness that took hold of his mind. His eyes could become saucers, craziness spilling out.

It fooled people at times, his boyish smile. The curiosity and bright inquiry that informed his expression. People saw those things and they saw a baby-boy, a cupcake. A lavish display of disturbed ranting only added to the effect; troubled youth, silly rabbit.

Portal jumping… it made one iffy. This was the consensus amongst those familiar with the tricky-wicky, twitchy-witchy element of magic. From whence had come the hat? Was the magic within Jefferson, as it was within so many other practitioners of magic? All a tad wonky, down to the last. Just look at Rumplestiltskin.

No one felt Regina was entirely stable and Zelena was off her nut. Who in the worlds knew what to make of Cora?

Jefferson’s past was littered with such figures, though few seemed to realize. Even now, less fickle a jumper and linked very solidly to Victor Frankenstein, few had a firm grasp of Jefferson.  (Dr. Whale, Storybrooke couldn’t help but think, Curse-conditioned and more comfortable with the devil they knew than with the alien traveler, not from the Enchanted Forest from which they all hailed. Dr. Whale; womanizer, some-time drunk, Mayor Mills’ lackey and bitch. We’ve got your number, buddy.)

Not many of them realized Jefferson shared Victor’s bed, and even fewer understand that Jefferson’s settling down was a fairly recent event.

He’d been monkish after the loss of his wife, for which he’d blamed his travels and himself. He’d remained monkish a long while, as it turned out his life was to be seriously interrupted by a hopped-up, steampunk, wildly feral and none-too-subtle Queen of Hearts, a Red Queen.

_Heads_ , more like. _Off with it_ , she was quick to say, and it was no joke. But – oh. She had her hearts, too, he supposed. A sanctum sanctorum of glowing things, pulsing in the absence of the bodies in which they belonged. It was mortifying, the way some of these witch-hags and jacked-up glam-wizards could remove vital parts – important parts like hearts and heads – and the victims still shuffled along. Fairly docile after dissection, it had to be admitted. Many practitioners admired the method.

Mad, numbed, enslaved. There was more than one way to lose your life, or to skin a cat – if that’s how you got your freak-on. Life could be lost, _bye-bye!_ while one still ambulated and respirated, doing repetitive and pointless chores, giving the odd bow and scrape, unaware of the time of day, the year, the century or even the land upon which one dwelled.

_Who am I? What is “I”? Who am Eye? Eye see you. Heh, heh_.

There was no home, no country of origin, no sense of self. There was only a pointless loitering. An endless crisis of middle age.

When the monkish existence finally came to an end, Jefferson’s body woke to find it wanted a sense of connection, sensation. A partner, someone to bed him well. It was kind of a surprise that it turned out to be a man.

Or, anyway, a goblin. It had masculine workings.

Jefferson had not divulged this bit of history to Victor, who was not overly fond of Rumplestiltskin. Nor had he made it clear that the attraction was still there, teasing him from the much more calm and controlled figure of Mr. Gold.

But consider, he might defend himself.

He’d loved his wife and his daughter was everything to him, but…. _Women_ , though. They’d become a little off-putting. Regina and her unbelievably self-centered willingness to betray. Cora, (one shuddered to think); mental bitch. Literally heartless and, true-to-form, ruthless. Even more recently there were so-called Saviors who tricked one into belief then walloped one upside the head. (The head! The _head!_ Why must these women always attack the vulnerable and difficult to track _head_?) There were puffed-up, feminist pixies who kick-boxed one out of second story windows and into the cold and snowy night.

Women. Pretty things, very difficult. And one was never supposed to hit them.

It was Rumplestiltskin who had rescued him from the clutches of Cora, Queen du jour. _Poof!_ There he was, a little, green man. _I am Rrrrrrrrrrrumplestiltskin!_ Jefferson had seen so many things by then. Wonderland was full of unlikely things; talking animals, hookah-addicted caterpillars of unusual size, over-zealous decks of cards. He’d seen his own body, separated from his own head. Body slumped, useless; the head lived on. It was _so_ disturbing. He still woke from dreams of it; his lively head watched maggots wriggle in the hulk of his body. His head gibbered to itself.

Logical thoughts; I can’t feel my hands! Yet he did, in fact, feel them. It felt as if his arms flailed wildly, out of all control, protesting the loss of the head that was usually recognized as the leader. But, no. There were his arms, hands; useless lumps of flesh.

Cora let him spend a little time separate from his body, looking. Time to take it all in, to think about what he’d done. Ants arrived, as well as other things interested in the inert body. Jefferson-the-head watched and waited, going steadily nuts. Marbles; lost. Cuckoo; flown. Lights; yes – they were on. House; empty.

By the time Rumplestiltskin appeared, he was back together again, after a fashion. “That’ll leave a mark.” The Red Queen joked. And, yes, it had. He worked for her, Cora; the Elephant Woman, The Horror Whisperer. He made hat after hat, and none did a thing but look dapper. He burbled and grunted and howled, baboon-like and inconsolable.

“Stop that caterwauling, dearie.” Rumplestiltskin said. “You’ll wake all the corseted tartlets and that cream-puff Queen’s guard. They may want to throw pies at us, or some such.” He smiled and posed in a weirdly elegant way. Jefferson felt fairly certain he’d invented his visitor.

“They’re used to me.” He’d mumbled, thick.

“Still. You mustn’t carry on, so. Look.” He waggled his hands about Jefferson’s frame. “You’re all in one piece. The bloody-minded, robber-queen has returned your head to its rightful place, unlike that awful mess she made of Humpty Dumpty, (who surely was pushed, don’t you agree, dearie). All the king’s men, indeed. When we all know there’s no king, and even if there was a king, his men would all be insipid buffoons. And – honestly – what would _horses_ do? All thumbs, horses.”

Rumplestiltskin _tsked_ , still smiling. He moved about the room as he spoke, little zips and starts. He tried on hats. Grandly, he spoke with his hands. He was very well-dressed, a flamboyant goblin. So very smiley through such frightful teeth.

Jefferson stared, feeling dull and unkempt. He couldn’t remember his name. Was he a king’s man, a buffoon? Was he a _horse_? Who in the world would name someone Humpty Dumpty; _that_ had to be a rough childhood. He’d once known a girl called Grace, how beautiful. The thought melted over him like grace.

“You’re in a right state, dearie. Would you like to leave this tawdry prison? See something of the world other than millinery, hmmm?”

Jefferson looked up. He eyed the imp in suspicion. Dare he listen? Dare he hope? There was every chance it was all illusion, all in his head. Or worse, it was a pretense manufactured by Cora. He would be punished for treachery.

“Come on, sweetpea.” Rumplestiltskin said. He’d moved close, voice like a purr. His eyes were like those of a lynx, even more mad than Jefferson’s. They filled up his head, like owl’s eyes. They filled up Jefferson’s head, pushing other things out. “You can muster a thought for your true self, I know you can. You mustn’t waste away, drooling and shouting and needling your needles for all of your days.”

“Mustn’t I?” Jefferson’s eyes filled, for that was to be his life, forever. It made one weep; the loss, the emptiness.

“Come, come. Snap out of it. What did the ant have?”

Bloody hell. Was it a riddle? This place and its ruddy riddles. He wanted no part.

“I don’t know about any fucking ant.”

“He had _high hopes_ , dearie! Everyone knows. An ant can’t climb a rubber tree plant. Am I right?”

Jefferson huffed. Rubber tree? Hopeful ants? Hope was the enemy. Plants were spies and spread gossip.

“He had high hopes, and so must you. Oh, for… enough! Let’s blow this taco stand.”

With that, another _poof!_ they were gone. Jefferson left a room full of hats and quite possibly a small part of himself.

 

 

 

He later realized that, one; Rumplestiltskin had plans for his portal-jumping abilities, his keen instinct for magical objects and his mercenary approach. And, two; Rumplestiltskin was delighted to get one over on Cora. It made him dance and sing, tra-la-la. He twisted Jefferson about in a fast, spinning waltz while Jefferson was still no more than a rag-doll. He congratulated Jefferson on his cleverness, though Jefferson still felt as if he was pumped full of Thorazine.

Clever? How could he be clever? He wasn’t even certain that he _was_.

 

 

 

 

And then, without much warning, Jefferson _was_. He responded well to Rumplestiltskin’s generally friendly-yet-odd brand of care and feeding. He became healthier, more certain of who he was. ( _My name is Jefferson. No, you don’t know. None of you buggars knows._ )

He approached the goblin who sat in elegant study, book held aloft. He hesitated, then plopped himself onto Rumplestiltskin’s lap.

The Imp was a bit of a queen. Drama queen, fashion diva. He was right fond of himself, at least a great deal of the time. Or, sort of on the surface. There were quiet moments Jefferson had witnessed, moments when Rumplestiltskin was angrily spiteful of himself.

The Imp set his book aside, owl eyes moving over Jefferson in a considering manner. “Is you woke, dearie?”

Was he ever. Things throbbed, things that had been quiet forever. They were reverting back to shocking life. Perhaps he was a revenant, but he was a horny revenant. His body remembered things. His mind wallowed in them and accepted Rumplestiltskin’s greenish skin, his mottled coloring and odd textures as infinitely touchable, knowable. Rumplestiltskin had been good to him. Kind.

“I’m awake.”

Rumplestiltskin seemed to purr. Jefferson considered the mouthful of unwholesome-looking teeth. Fuck it, he thought. He was going in.

 

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin was his first, having crossed over to the other team. Red Rover, Red Rover, send Jefferson on over. The change of team altered thoughts. The ache of craving shaped itself into new words and images. The alarm system within Jefferson’s body changed its awareness.

Weirdly, the awareness grew. It expanded beyond an awareness of his cock, a steady drive to penetrate something and get jittery about the hips. It expanded so that his skin, all over his body, thirsted.

How long since he’d felt the touch of another? Even touch that was simple and sweet, a hug from his daughter, her legs clamped to his flank, arms a clumsy vice around his neck. The smell of sunshine in long hair and over-ripe fruit on the breath and fingertips.

Such things came in flashes, making more solid the connection of his head to his body. Rumplestiltskin seemed to understand that, at times, Jefferson lost the connection. He tapped a black-nailed fingertip to Jefferson’s head, a surprisingly hard rapping of bone-to-bone.

“Come down from there, dearie! You’ll catch your death.”

Such warnings were always delivered with a smile, maybe a giggle. Jefferson was left wondering; what would it be like? To see one’s death, waving at a distance. _Hiya, honey._ To chase it, to catch it. What would he do with it?

Rumplestiltskin knocked on his head again. “Hatter? Hello? Anybody home?”

_Come down from there_. It made sense to Jefferson, and – somehow – he came down. A vital part of himself opened a hatch door that existed somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. Gods, it made him nauseous. Sometimes the nausea stopped the proceedings, altogether. He retched, head swimming and, far below, a distant distress of belly. He retreated.

Other times, he pressed on.

“Are you a man or a snail?” Rumplestiltskin proposed.

Jefferson was bewildered as to the options, uncertain in his answer. He’d once eaten snails. He remembered liking them, or at least liking butter and garlic. Now the thought, slickly sticky things that extended eyeballs on stems to look hither and yon, only served to increase his nausea. Creatures whose bodies somehow oozed a shell… he dearly wished he could do the same.

_Gotta push on_ , said Rumplestiltskin’s voice in his head, (his _head_!), and so he did. Through the throat-hatch and (gulp!) down, into the body. Like an infant getting to know itself, fingers and toes wiggled. Limbs moved, like treading water.

Water, bladder. Ow. He held a tricky, mercurial thing that hung around between his legs and pissed a hot arc onto friendly bushes. It felt so fucking good. He’d come down, into his body. He was hungry, thirsty.

Horny.

 

 

 

Jefferson’s memory of sex was a little murky, but he felt certain there had been satisfying handfuls of breasts. Rounded, pale things with pinkish nipples, like bull’s eyes. Suck me, said the bosom. No, surely it did not speak. That was an intrusion from Wonderland, mind hopelessly be-fucked. The notion that nipples developed small mouths and conversed bothered Jefferson a great deal.

He sat on Rumplestiltskin’s lap and considered. What would happen? The goblin was an unknown beneath his layers of elegant clothing, but a lack of breasts seemed clear. There was, however, an uprising expressing interest beneath Jefferson’s bum. He wiggled against it, watching a flicker of something light in Rumplestiltskin’s lynx-eyes.

Hungry-thirsty-horny. He wanted to tear off all of his clothes and rub bodily against his host. He wanted to be touched all over, hands in his hair, fingers against his lips… his lips felt sensitive to the point of pain.

The hard prod that poked at his bum made him aware of sensitivity, even there. Hands to squeeze and maybe slap his arse; fingers to touch and explore his less explored parts. Unanswered questions.

More than anything, he wanted to be kissed. He wasn’t sure he remembered the feeling of it, but he’d played at remembering. He’d kissed the back of his own hand, moaning when the tip of his tongue touched his skin. He’d teased his tongue to the palm of his hand, to his thread-callused fingertips.

He felt desperate to be kissed in return, to be tasted and sampled. He wanted Rumplestiltskin to push his fingers into his wakeful and curious mouth. A new thought, to fill his mouth with cock, to let him feel the texture and swell of it, the heat of blood.

“I want it.” he blurted to Rumplestiltskin. He blushed.

Rumplestiltskin’s very strange head was tilted back, leaned to the back of his throne-like chair. His house was a castle; his things were as overdone as his wardrobe. His eyes moved over Jefferson while the fingers of one hand plucked at Jefferson’s shirt-sleeve.

“You want _what_ , dearie?”

Words. They tumbled, unstoppable. “Sex. Fucking. Kissing. All of it.”

Surely he’d once been better about these matters. He struggled to remember. There was something almost angelic about the memory of his wife… Had he merely pawed away at her, grunting his need?

Had her nipples had things to say? Opinions, diatribes. Discourse that was pro or against the feeding of the young. Complaints about the cold?

Rumplestiltskin smiled. His hand moved up Jefferson’s arm. “Blunt.” He said. “To the point. I like it.”

 

 

 

Jefferson was kissed at last. The kiss came to him like breath, when he’d been long underwater. He fed on Rumplestiltskin’s lips, his tongue, learning the more intimate nature of scent. It was both animal and surprisingly civilized, a scent touched with magic. It was like the scent of violets breathed out by certain predators, produced to attract prey. A light sweetness touched with a charring of smoke, a reminder that the host who cared for him was, in fact, the Dark One.

He made a thorough investigation. He wanted to touch as much as he wanted to be touched. He soothed his hands all over Rumplestiltskin’s naked body, interested in how different his host seemed from nearly everyone else.

His skin was shifty, for one. Its tone was hard to pin down; it changed with the light. Now greenish, now coppery, sometimes very dark and sometimes rather pale. The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet were not unlike Jefferson’s; a blushing sort of flesh. His cock was a blushing thing as well, rosy at the tip.

He was smooth and soft in places, rough in others. People said he was a scaly creature, but it was only true in fits and starts, odd patches. Places along his spine, at his tailbone. A serpentine, scar-like path of raised skin that wound around one leg, once injured. Downy, almost invisible hair lay over his arms and legs. It made a path from a deep and shadowy dip of navel to his cock, becoming a darker color at his groin.

He seemed edible to Jefferson. There they were; nipples. They were a sort of mauve color, almost plum, and seemed mostly quiet. Sleepy things giving rather blank looks, not inclined to talk. What a relief. Jefferson flicked his tongue against one, delighting in the feel and taste upon his tongue. The nipple roused itself, shadow-colored areola goose-bumping.

Was it his imagination? Did he hear a tiny _ooh_ or _ahh_?

Anxious to know what it felt like, he pushed himself up on his arms, body hovered over Rumplestiltskin’s. One of his own nipples, tricky things, near Rumplestiltskin’s mouth, he said, “Do me! Do me!”

“Good grief.” Rumplestiltskin muttered.

He’d muttered myriad complaints. He seemed to find Jefferson demanding. Still, for the most part he complied. Blushes and heat touched his skin all over, following the path of Jefferson’s hands and mouth. When Jefferson had taken Rumplestiltskin’s cock into his mouth, trying it out, Rumplestiltskin had nearly stopped breathing. Muscles in his belly and hips had tensed; he’d rocked. His inhalations became spasmodic, sharp gasps.

_Ooh_ , Jefferson thought. He liked it. He liked the saline, soft-hide taste, the warm, firm feel. His body felt things that were in sympathy with Rumplestiltskin. His balls wanted something in the way of a cuddle, his cock throbbed, aching for touch.

He said, “Me, too.” He turned his body about to slide into Rumplestiltskin’s mouth. There came a moment of grumbling, ornery complaints about the indignity of it all; Why must Rumplestiltskin’s enjoyment of the moment be sullied by hairy balls dangling in his face? The rudeness of the amateurish coupling was unspeakable.

Ever helpful, Jefferson said, “Let’s roll over, then. You can dangle in my face.” He thought he might like the dangle.

“That’s a very kind and generous offer, dearie.”

Eventually, Jefferson was back on top. His head was swimming. He’d seen visions when Rumplestiltskin sucked him, the heat and wetness of his mouth almost more than Jefferson could take. To feel it at the same time that he sucked, mouth full and watering, was either agony or bliss. It was difficult to place such a tumultuous, ramshackle collective of feeling. Jefferson knew he would want to return to this point of exploration, repeatedly.

For the moment, it was Rumplestiltskin’s mouth at his nipple. There it was again; the hot, the wet… the sharp zing of pleasure that left a pulsing ache in its wake. There was a flick of a pointed tongue, a raking bite of teeth.

Pain, pleasure. How could he tell the difference? He could not. The feeling in his chest was that of a panicked bird, trapped inside and beating itself to smithereens. It was possible he might burst into laughter or tears at any moment.

Jefferson rutted. He moved his body against Rumplestiltskin, whimpering into a deep kiss; down the rabbit hole, silly Hatter. His hips took to grinding against Rumplestiltskin, cock to cock. Rumplestiltskin’s hands clamped to his arse, gripping. His need ever more intense, he moved down and took Rumplestiltskin’s cock into his mouth again. He fondled full, taut balls and bobbed his head, trying to take all of the shaft. He did it until his host made a strangled sound and went stiff, cock and balls pulsing in alarming ways. Come spurted into Jefferson’s mouth, spilled out of it when it couldn’t all be swallowed down. He lay back, panting as much as Rumplestiltskin, hand over his heart. The bird. It thrashed about, seeking freedom. His head was noisy, but the room grew quiet.

“Let’s take care of you, love.” Rumplestiltskin said.

He’d already taken such care, Jefferson thought. Deliverance from vile Wonderland and the wretched Queen of Hearts. He’d fed and clothed Jefferson and put him on a career path. He’d even seen to Jefferson’s rather dashing new haircut.

He’d brought Jefferson back into his body, head firmly attached. His touch, his kiss continued to do so.

He kissed Jefferson a long while, soft and sweet. His fingers turned wicked. After a few beats of such wickedness, he sat up between Jefferson’s legs and played with him… Jefferson’s cock was stroked, slick with saliva and pre-come. His balls were tickled and a sneaky (wicked) finger played about his hole, a place that suddenly ached with sensation and need.

It was a clever and unexpected rhythm Rumplestiltskin cooked-up. A long finger slid inside Jefferson, making him gasp. His body bore down, tried to suck the finger in. Rumplestiltskin thrust, a strange and new feeling of friction at Jefferson’s opening, but it was also a pressure, deep inside. The pressure built and made him even harder. It was almost frightful.

Rumplestiltskin’s other hand worked him. It stroked, up and down, a steady friction that played havoc with the pressure inside. It left Jefferson voiceless, breathless, his body arced and tight, eyes squeezed shut. His mouth was wide open; Would the bird at last explode from his chest? He hung there, somehow suspended between Rumplestiltskin’s two hands.

The burst of light that came with climax was such that he had no idea what might have become of the bird. Suddenly, he had a voice. Breath. He sobbed and cried out, breathing harsh, ragged breaths. His body, still worked by Rumplestiltskin, tripped into a scary bliss. His insides closed-in like a vice. They burst open. It should have been deadly, but wasn’t.

It was relief, magnified. Ropes of come pulsed from his cock to land on his belly, chest and even his face. He felt Rumplestiltskin go still; his body contracted on the finger inside him. His voice was far away, yet startling in its angst-ridden, guttural release.

As he calmed, the finger withdrew. He moaned to feel Rumplestiltskin suckle at the head of his cock, a little too sensitive to bear it. Rumplestiltskin pulled everything out of him…. All hurt, all sorrow. Hands over his face, Jefferson wept.

 

 

 

 

How strange, now, to look at Gold and to think of Rumplestiltskin. Jefferson’s feeling for the years he’d stayed with his employer was a good feeling. Safe, silly and fun. More and various sorts of sex than he’d had before or since.

Gold was so… quiet. His eyes were not lynx eyes, but were deep and so dark, so secretive and full. Without their wide wildness, Jefferson was more aware of their deeply hooded nature. Gold’s face was more gaunt than Jefferson remembered of the Imp.

Maybe Gold was hungry.

He loved a girl and kept her at a safe distance. He loved a son who was forever lost. More now than when he delighted in his own darkness, he was furtive in his decisions. He sometimes made decisions under an instruction of fear.

 

 

 

For a long while, the fear that had ruled Rumplestiltskin’s youth had simply dropped away. Power defeated it. Power gobbled up the fear and shat it out, so that Rumplestiltskin might grin cheekily at Jefferson and confirm that – yes – he did, indeed, shit gold. Help yourself to a pile, my mad friend. He was well above, better than; you better believe it.

Believe, and thou shall be healed.

Jefferson was healed.

His own fear abated, he set forth in the world with the smile and banter of a born salesman, a showman and a shyster, a trickster who was too charming to be ignored. He talked and flirted his way into the locked-down, the encoded and be-spelled. He wooed various witches out both knickers and treasured, magical objects, guarded more strenuously than virtue. The wooing could leave him nervous, antsy.

Girl-parts were fine; fondly remembered and mapped for navigation. Nipples were generally silent. Girl-minds, though. Girl-thoughts and, oh lord, girl-feelings. Girl-tempers. The heat that came from the skin and eyes of upset girls was clammy and agitating, and Jefferson found he was usually relieved when out of the clutches of enchantresses.

Sorcerers, wizards, medicine men and overly rugged shamans were marginally better. His methods among them varied from a frank out-maneuver to friendly-ish negotiation. Occasionally a flirtatious nature led to a trade.

He could play dumb in a humorous, appealing way; he could flatter the ego without being too obvious about it. He’d learned much from watching Rumplestiltskin.

His employer had grandiose ways which none would consider subtle, yet there was always a subtext, often overlooked by his audience. While people were generally distracted by his peacock strut, Rumplestiltskin quietly went about his own agenda.

People, Jefferson recognized, usually preferred to feel good about themselves. Many of them had not come to a point of literally falling apart, losing heads or what-not. It was the sort of thing that could eventually lead one to serious introspection, self-examination and then a cautious, newly informed study of the world.

So many had avoided such depth of examining the self, they seemed broadly unaware. They were utterly susceptible to himself, to Rumplestiltskin. They watched Rumplestiltskin prance and dance and bark nonsense, and they looked down their noses. As if they had a clue as to what it was they looked down upon. They felt better about themselves, above impish, infantile and goblin-ridden behavior. Even the most unattractive made an assumption that they were better looking than Rumplestiltskin. They were prettier, part of society.

Normal.

How quickly people who were confident of their own belonging dismissed the outsider. The outsider was of no consequence; secrets were casually revealed in front of him. People were careless, thoughtless. Those not like themselves must not be quite human. Not worthy of consideration.

Jefferson found this thinking was often applied to himself, whether by association to Rumplestiltskin or because he played on his looks. Baby-face, Rumplestiltskin told him. Baby-cakes, he sometimes said, finger and thumb fond at Jefferson’s cheek that dimpled with a boyish smile.

Prettiness could sometimes have the same effect as ugliness. Jefferson was dismissed. Pretty boy, probably a little simple. Sometimes, he let a touch of madness leak into his smile. Then – _whoa_ , said the world. This one’s a little off. Let us conduct our business slightly away from him, yet within earshot. He’s not all there. He won’t care about what we have to say.

People. Magical or no, Jefferson felt a little offended by them, on the whole. The more he gained strength and wellness, engaged in reading them for a living, the more they seemed trifling. Easy marks. Self-centered and addicted to mirrors, whether the reflection was a polished surface or another’s eyes.

 

 

 

 

…. Until he met Victor Frankenstein.

What was Rumplestiltskin’s end-game with Victor? Jefferson was never sure, nor did he know the end-game with Regina. It was Rumplestiltskin, however, who prompted Jefferson to casually bring together an alien scientist and a failing student-witch, each with their own necrophiliac drive to raise the dead. It was a tad unsavory, but after one glimpse of Victor, Jefferson shrugged. To each their own.

He couldn’t stop looking at Victor. So quiet and self-contained, secretive behind rounded, mirrored glasses. He sketched a garden in moonlight, an artist as well as a surgeon.

Victor, on the other hand, had been oblivious. He was completely focused on his work, fevered with it, though somber in his passion. He had things to prove, miracles to accomplish, an overly important father to impress.

“Daddy issues.” Rumplestiltskin murmured to Jefferson. He smiled his often sly, frightfully toothy smile. His shoulder bumped to Jefferson’s, conspiratorial.

Jefferson’s brow raised in concurrence, but he couldn’t bring himself to poke too much fun at Victor. He was fascinated.

Was there a flesh and blood person beneath Victor’s long coat? The thing buttoned-up to his chin and fell nearly to his ankles, over rather tyrannical black boots. It was all a little dungeon-wear. He was as covered-up as Jefferson, and it led Jefferson to wonder about scars, disfigurements.

Victor was so pale. He was like ice; the blue of his eyes was almost the color of ice, blue-grey. His hair was white-blonde, eyebrows reported missing by a worried brow. He was so driven. In which part of himself did he hide the artist, the flow of creativity? Jefferson made faces, ogled Regina’s expanse of cleavage in an obvious way, played mincing, dancing games with Rumplestiltskin and used shuckster voices on Victor. Helpless to himself, he acted the fool, all to no avail. The doctor never even noticed.

All about the heart, was Victor. All about the dead and playing God. The preservative effect of sleeping curses and such. Unconditional methods of birth. An obsession with the electricity generated by storms. He was preoccupied with unusual things, such as concern for the hands and feet of corpses, as these distal parts were quicker to lose oxygen and begin the process of decomposition. Eyes were vulnerable, too. Resurrection might also involve surgery, a grafting of parts from fresher corpses.

Who knew? Certainly not one who had lost his head. Victor would be galled if he knew the sorts of resurrection Cora liked to play with… if he knew of Wonderland, where nearly all but the forlorn Humpty Dumpty could go all to pieces and then regenerate. After a fashion. To say nothing of the Enchanted Forest, a veritable hive of beautiful corpses.

Alas, Victor had paid him no mind at all, even when it was just the two of them, jumping worlds. Somewhere in Victor’s world was a woman as pale as Victor, demure and exerting a mysterious hold on Victor. Perhaps it was her resemblance to a corpse. Jefferson was only a mediator, a means of travel. A mercenary who could locate a special heart. For the good doctor, he was only one step on a journey to reanimate a corpse.

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin wasn’t a jealous sort with Jefferson. (Mr. Gold, Jefferson later observed, was _ferociously_ jealous over Belle).  That they used one another was plain, but it was a friendly use. Affectionate.

In bed, once Jefferson returned from seeing Victor to his home, Rumplestiltskin gave a stealthy and naughty leer.

“Close your eyes, dearie. Pretend I’m him.”

“How did you know?” Jefferson asked. It made him blush. He’d done nothing untoward.

Rumplestiltskin snorted. “How could I not know? Foolish boy.”

Maybe he was a foolish boy, Jefferson thought, but he’d managed quite a set-up for himself. He traveled all over, as free as could be. He came home to a safe fortress and to an employer and friend who looked after him, saw to his every need.

Rumplestiltskin knew him. He _knew_. His eyes closed, Jefferson’s body was worked to a fever-pitch of angst, of edgy, raw lust and surprisingly willing, willful submission. He went back and forth. Sometimes he pretended Victor worked him, especially as his cock was sucked. Imagining Victor was overwhelming then; to think of his obsessive eyes closed, pale eyelashes on pale cheeks. Mouth open, taking Jefferson in. Jefferson wondered what it would take to warm him, to make Victor thaw.

Jefferson’s hands moved over his torso, down to Rumplestiltskin’s mouth, to his lips. He moaned, hips slowly moving, legs in a wide sprawl around Rumplestiltskin.

But, when Rumplestiltskin moved over him, covered his body, he couldn’t hold onto the pretend Victor. He didn’t want to. He loved it when Rumplestiltskin took him… he adored the moment he was first penetrated, the gasp it pushed from his chest, one of both pleasure and pain.

He opened his eyes and saw the tense furrow of Rumplestiltskin’s brow, the waves of chestnut hair hanging over his face. His eyes closed again. He reached overhead and held onto the bedrails, moaning as his body was abused, rocked and fucked.

It was his favorite thing. It obliterated everything else. It anchored him deeply in his body, yet his mind soared and dreamed. He was very present and yet gone, gone, gone.

 

 

 

 

“I see you watching him.” Victor said.

Jefferson looked away from the crow that was Mr. Gold. Goofy name. He supposed it was appropriated, given the spinning, the wealth. But, still.

Mr. Gold. Mr. Rumplestiltskin Gold? Mr. Dark One Gold? Maybe his name was Bob.

“I know.” Jefferson admitted. He knew he looked. He knew Victor Knew.

So many years and miles later, Victor had taken notice, at last. He was different, away from his family and friends, post-Dr. Whale. He was somewhat detached from his obsession. He was more relaxed, his shoulders not held up to his ears. He habitually called Jefferson ‘brother’.

Gone was the mysterious dungeon-wear. It was amusing, or sometimes unbearably hot to see him in scrubs.

“I thought he was just a former employer.”

They sat in Granny’s, having breakfast. Jefferson would never be able to explain why it felt weirder than being fed at a goblin’s magic table. He watched Gold disappear into his shop, _bye-bye._ He dragged his eyes back to Victor.

“Sometimes it was more than that.” A confession. Victor knew how to read him. _Maybe_ meant _no_. _Sometimes_ meant _often, always_.

“Oh. Really. You and the Dark One. You and Mr. Lizard King. Wait – no. That’s Jim Morrison. Unless, of course, you’ve also managed to make it with Jim Morrison.”

Smiling, putting heavy faith in his chin-dimple, Jefferson said, “I don’t know who that is.” Was he an actual lizard? And a king?

“So, do you want him, now?”

“Jim Morrison?”

Victor’s look was flat. He took a sip of coffee. Like Mr. Gold with Belle, was Victor jealous?

“I don’t know.” Jefferson said. “It’s just so strange to see him like this. He’s so… sedate.”

“And straight?”

Jefferson shrugged. “I guess. We haven’t really spoken. He just nods at me. He used to be so… bouncy.”

“Awww….. Jefferson misses the Happy Demon.”

“Shut up. Anyway, he’s still the Dark One. A demon.”

“Oh, yes.” Victor raised his coffe cup. “Let us not forget.”

 

 

 

 

Jefferson rolled over in Rumplestiltskin’s bed. He hugged himself against his greenish chest, awash in warmth and listening to the cavernous, ocean sounds of Rumplestiltskin’s body. Bony thing. The Imp’s fingertips drew lazy circles on his back.

“Why are you so good to me?” Jefferson asked.

“You’re good to me in turn.” Rumplestiltskin murmured. “Look at all the magic you’ve brought me.”

“But not the slippers.” Jefferson suppressed a snort. He was mystified by his employer’s need for ruby slippers. He could only imagine torch songs and drag.

“No.” Rumplestiltskin was a little terse. “Not the slippers. You do a good job all the same, dearie.”

Propping up, Jefferson looked at Rumplestiltskin. Sleepy, blissed-out… a hot blush still lingered in greenish, shadowed cheeks. The bottom lip he loved to suck was even more of a pout as sleep approached.

“That’s it?” he asked, to which Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes, put upon. “I’m a good employee.”

“Oh, no.” Rumplestiltskin’s hand rose and cupped Jefferson’s jaw. “No. You’ve been that rare and almost mythical creature for me, Jefferson.”

“What creature is that?”

Rumplestiltskin smiled.

“A friend.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Back on the Chain Gang by The Pretenders:  
> (Like a break in the battle was your part  
> in the wretched life of a lonely heart.)


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